


False Colours

by maxi47



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxi47/pseuds/maxi47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cotard and Bush meet again, but all is not quite as it seems. Some knowledge of "Hornblower and the Crisis" could be useful, as well as "Duty".  This fic uses elements from both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Colours

Lieutenant Bush watched uneasily as Captain Hornblower's gig shoved off and made its way to shore. The captain's belongings were being packed and he would be leaving the Hotspur sooner than later; Captain Hornblower had come back from Admiral Pellew's flagship several hours earlier with the news that he had been made up to post captain. The Hotspur was too small to be a post ship, and another captain would be appointed to her. William Bush would remain in order to familiarise the captain with his new ship, and act as his first lieutenant, while Captain Hornblower moved on to a larger ship and onto glory. The supper Hornblower was attending that evening was in celebration his promotion, held ashore at a fashionable inn, and arranged by Admiral Pellew.

Despite his promotion, and all it promised, Captain Hornblower had not been in a good mood. The mail had arrived during his absence; Bush had the unfortunate pleasure of being in his cabin as Hornblower rifled through the stack of letters, which seemed to consist mainly of bills from merchants in Portsmouth. The captain had stopped; his face draining of colour when he reached one piece of correspondence, written on much finer paper. He had then hidden it from Bush's sight before he could get too close a look. Hornblower had then brusquely called for his steward and arranged for all his belongings to be packed, and announced that he would be having supper ashore with the admiral. He had permission to stay ashore with his wife that night, Hornblower had said, and he would see Mr Bush first thing in the morning.

The gig had touched the shore as he was watching; Captain Andrews of the Ajax had beat Hornblower to the shore in his more elaborate barge, and as he watched, Andrews waited for Hornblower and greeted him. Bush tore his attention away from the scene; his attention should be focussed on assuring that the ship was in order for her new captain. Hornblower would not want to be disgraced in any manner or form; not that the Hotspur was in need of anything bar a few minor repairs, but he knew that the captain would expect more than that. He wondered if the news of Captain Hornblower's impending change of command had reached the lower decks. Bush smiled grimly knowing the news would be on every Jack Tar’s lips within minutes of Captain Hornblower's orders for his belongings to be packed.

They had been in port only a few days, and there had been some damage to her in the course of their last mission. The carpenter had fixed most of it within hours of the attack on Brest, plugging holes and fixing up the worst of the splintered wood. Bush cast a critical eye over the deck, and ran through what was yet to be done. His eyes came to rest on Mr Orrock who, like himself, had been contenting himself with staring at the shore. Granted, there was not as much to do now as there had been while they were at sea, but neither of them was setting a good example for the men.

"Mr Orrock," he boomed across the deck. "A moment of your time, if you please."

Mr Orrock looked up sharply in surprise. Let that be a lesson to him; it was something that all officers should learn - always be ready. He had learnt it and, by God, those under his command would likewise learn it.

It was a slightly breathless Orrock who attended him on the quarterdeck. "Mr Bush, sir."

"Mr Orrock, give Mr Prowse my compliments and I wish to see him on deck at his convenience."

Orrock went at double-pace down the stairs as though he was on fire.

Mr Prowse did not make his appearance immediately, and Bush continued his survey of the ship. She was a trim ship, and Captain Hornblower always ensured that she was in good condition, but there was always something that could be improved on, but first he must speak to Mr Prowse, who knew the condition of her sails and yards better than anyone else on the ship except, perhaps, the captain himself.

"Lieutenant Bush, sir. Mr Orrock said that you wished to see me," Mr Prowse said in a gruff voice.

"Yes, Mr Prowse," he said, and put his request before him. Mr Prowse puffed out some air, and glanced at the land, but only briefly, before turning his full attention to Bush.

"So it's true, then."

At first Bush thought to deny it, but Mr Prowse had been a loyal officer, and he found that he could not lie to him. "Yes, although it is not common knowledge."

The amused expression on Mr Prowse's face disabused him of that particular notion.

"I fear that the news made the lower deck as soon as the captain's belongings were shifted from the hold, sir, and, I daresay that within the hour the bargemen will have spread even more news to the lower deck."

Mr Prowse's eyes strayed to the shore. The night was gathering, but the gig that had taken Captain Hornblower ashore could be seen plying its way back.

"I daresay you are right, Mr Prowse."

"I shall be sorry to see him leave," Mr Prowse said.

"As will I," Bush returned. "I wish it to be a ship without a fault that is handed over, for his sake."

"And so it shall be, sir," Mr Prowse said with more than a hint of pride.

"I shall keep you to that, Mr Prowse."

"Aye, aye, sir."

* * * *

Bush resisted the urge to rub his hands down his face, and wished that he had managed to drink more coffee before coming on deck. He had spent a fair amount of the night awake with small concerns that, in the light of the day, were of little importance. Captain Hornblower had come up the larboard side as the swabbers were still drying off the deck. Bush, who had been up before the change of watch, ostensibly to check the mids, had in truth been trying to pretend that he was not waiting for Hornblower to return. Hornblower had been the main cause of his lost night's rest but the captain barely acknowledged his presence, clearly preoccupied with larger concerns as he disappeared into his cabin. Hornblower had then called Styles, his steward, closely followed by the purser and who had been in his cabin ever since.

He had seen Styles once since, as he went to the galley; Styles could be insolent, but Bush conceded that he had proved loyal, and now he had the expression of one who would rather be anywhere else than where he was, which did not bode well for Captain Hornblower's mood. As he watched, Styles reappeared from below, a coffee pot in hand, and traded a meaningful look with Matthews before disappearing into the cabin.

Styles left soon after, and Bush considered calling him to the quarterdeck to see if he could learn more of Captain Hornblower's mood, but before he could find a pretext to call him to the deck Mr Harriman, the erstwhile replacement of Mr Hammond, appeared on the quarterdeck and hurried over to him.

"Captain Hornblower's compliments, sir, and would you please join him for breakfast."

"I would be pleased to," replied Bush and sent Harriman on his way.

Captain Hornblower looked up from where he was stowing his accounts as Bush entered the cabin.

"Mr Bush, I am glad that you could join me," he said in a carefully formal tone. "Would you like coffee? Styles will be along shortly with the rest of the meal."

The coffee soon revived his wits, and he was grateful that Styles, while still a poor steward, had managed to learn how to make a passable cup - barely passable, but it would do. While they had been drinking their coffee Hornblower had remained silent, as though caught in other thoughts, and as it was not his place to dictate the course of conversation, Bush set himself about studying the cabin. The few belongings and decorations that had adorned it had all but been removed; although two sea chests still sat by the window, the cabin seemed bare and unoccupied except for the table they were currently sitting at.

Styles soon entered with the meal: fried eggs which appeared to be grossly overcooked and swilling with left over grease, bacon which was burnt around the edges. The only thing that looked edible was the fresh bread. It amazed Bush that, after all these years, he did not miss the taste of fresh bread until he tasted it when he was in port. They both eagerly applied themselves to the meal, despite its shortcomings, and Bush found that he was glad to be spared the unpleasantness of small talk.

"Mr Bush, I was informed by the Admiral last night that the new captain for the Hotspur, Captain Meadows, has already been appointed and will arrive aboard today."

"So soon," said Bush, taken aback at the suddenness of it. The admiralty was not known for making swift appointments; clearly this was someone of influence. “I have not heard the name,” he added.

Hornblower smiled tightly at him, and Bush realised that his expression must have given him away. "He must have distinguished himself in order to get a command," Hornblower said. "Further more, you may have heard that Admiral Pellew will be sailing to take up the East Indies command as soon as the Tonnant is victualled."

"No, no, sir. I had not heard. Do you know who will be taking over command of this squadron?"

"Admiral Cornwallis will have command. Admiral Pellew was so kind as to inform us last night."

"Admiral Cornwallis has a good reputation but I will be sorry to lose Admiral Pellew. You have served with Admiral Pellew for many a year, have you not?"

"I was a midshipman under his command in the Indefatigable," Hornblower said, pouring himself another coffee, hiding any expression by looking down at the table. "I played whist last night with someone recently aboard this ship," he added effectively changing the subject.

Bush raised his eyebrows questioningly at Hornblower, but let him continue.

"Major Cotard joined Captain Pellew and I for a game. He was in fine spirits last night; he asked after your health."

"And the major, he is well?"

"He has recovered well from his wound," Hornblower said, finishing his cup. He then changed the subject back to the business at hand, “Captain Meadows will be aboard at four bells. I can be assured that you will have everything in readiness?"

"Yes, sir, of course," Bush said and then cleared his throat. "Captain, sir, I wanted you to know that it has been an honour serving with you."

"And with you," Hornblower returned, his cheeks colouring.

Bush nodded and left. He knew that Hornblower would not take kindly to an excess of sentimentality, and he felt uncomfortable displaying such emotion. He closed the door firmly and resolved to put the whole business behind him.

The deck seemed almost peaceful in comparison to Hornblower's cabin. The wind had picked up while he had been dining, and the harbour was scudded with white topped waves.

"Looks like Captain Andrews can't wait to get back for more," Prowse said.

The Ajax was signalling her intent to leave within the hour and boats were frantically rowing to and from the ship as she made her final preparations to depart.

"Perhaps Captain Andrews wants to leave ahead of the weather," Bush replied. It was not good form to infer that any captain sailed only for the prizes that he might gain, even if it was a prime motivation. Further more, Captain Hornblower would not approve of his officers making such observations.

"Oh, yes, there is that," said Prowse, and nodded, "the barometer has been dropping this last hour. If he leaves it any longer he may not be able to get out of port."

Bush looked sharply at Prowse. "It's dropping rapidly?"

"I think we're in for a blow, that's for sure," Prowse returned, with the air of someone who knew these waters well, and knew its moods. "And Corbin's knee is playing up, that's a sure sign that we'll be stuck here a while," Prowse added.

Bush cleared his throat, but said nothing. Prowse had a point: Corbin's leg was a more accurate measure of the weather than any barometer could be. Prowse took his silence as permission to continue talking.

“The ship will be ready, sir, just in case you’re worried on that score.”

“We have until four bells, Mr Prowse.”

“So I have already heard, sir.”

Styles must have been listening, while he was with Hornblower, Bush thought with some indignation. He should have guessed that he would use the opportunity to gather information, and the man had never been able to keep his mouth shut. He was a poor choice for a steward, and he could not understand why, when there were so many to choose from, Captain Hornblower did not appoint someone more suitable to the task.

“In that case, Mr Prowse, show me what you have accomplished so far, and what is left to do,” he said.

“With pleasure, sir.”

Mr Prowse had not exaggerated, Bush found, in his estimation of what had been accomplished in the short time since word had come of the change of command. The ship was now in better condition than she had been for the last four Sunday inspections. It was a ship that Captain Hornblower could be proud of, and he hoped that Captain Meadows would be equally impressed. They reached the deck as three bells struck and he noticed that Captain Hornblower had finally left his cabin; furthermore the gig had been lowered and was at the side.

“Mr Bush, I was just about to call for you. Everything is in readiness?” Hornblower said. There was a false cheeriness in his voice; a contrast to his sombre disposition in his cabin earlier.

“Yes, sir,” Bush replied.

“Then I shall say good bye to the men,” he said. “Call for divisions, if you please, Mr Prowse.”

Mr Prowse made the call, and the thumping of feet from below could be heard. The men had already been given orders to turn out in their Sunday best, and while the divisions were forming, Bush noticed that the Ajax was now weighing anchor. If Hornblower saw it as well, he did not think it of enough importance to mention the departure of his supper companion of the night before. They stood side by side in silence until the last of the men were in their places on the deck. Hornblower merely nodded to Bush before making his rounds, stopping every now and again to say a word or two to the men. The Hotspur was a small ship and Captain Hornblower had been in a position to hand pick the crew, so he knew them all by name, and some of them he had served with for many a year. It would be hard for him to leave them behind; indeed, Bush considered, despite his lack of outward concern Hornblower was not taking his own departure easy.

By the time Hornblower had finished the inspection, Captain Meadows' gig was pushing off from the shore. The captain came back to the quarterdeck and quietly ordered that the men were to form at the side. He merely nodded at Bush and then followed them just as the boat touched the side. Bush followed him down, and the pipes called as Captain Meadows came up the side. Bush had the impression of a big man, with a red face and a shock of grey hair; he tried not to scrutinise him too much as he was introduced. First impressions could be deceptive, he reminded himself, and it was not his place to judge at all. He had been wrong in the past; at least two occasions came readily to mind: one with the man that was preparing to leave the ship at this moment, the other - he stopped the thought short. He watched as Hornblower solemnly shook hands with Meadows and the Bosun's whistle rang out once more as he went down the side.

“Mr,” Meadows hesitated a moment, “Bush. If you would be so kind?” Meadows indicated the quarterdeck.

Meadows took his position by the rail, and handed Bush his orders. As Bush started to read, the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, and he had to steady the paper on the rail in order it read it, while the wind roared through the rigging. It was to the crew's credit that they did not move until the orders had been read. Captain Meadows did not stand on ceremony, and dismissed the men without inspection. Meadows then disappeared into his cabin without another word.

Squinting through the rain, Bush could see that the Ajax had made headway up the harbour, and that Hornblower's gig had touched the shore. He wiped the water from his face and went below for his oilskin. It would seem that Corbin's prediction was about to come to pass.

* * * *

Bush stepped out of the door of the victualler's office and onto the street, pulling his collar further up around his neck and turning his head face away from the wind and rain. The blow had lasted four days now; four days in which he had had the unfortunate happenstance to become better acquainted with Captain James Percival Meadows, now Master and Commander of His Majesty's Sloop Hotspur. He set his teeth together to stop them chattering and started to walk along the street, intent on finding an inn where he could stay the night; Meadows had made that concession when he had insisted that Bush, and Bush alone, should come ashore and ensure that they would be supplied at the very next opportunity, so they would not be delayed in departing. Bush knew the vagaries of the victualling yard well enough to know that the larger ships and the captains with more influence would be the first supplied when the weather cleared; he was certain the Captain Meadows knew the same but, still, he had been sent on this futile mission. He had been kept most of the afternoon, and had walked out of the office with nothing but vague assurances that his captain's list would be attended to in due course.

There was one consolation in all of this; the prospect of staying ashore was more pleasant than being aboard the Hotspur. A warm, dry room, with a bed that did not move and time away from a discontented crew was something to look forward to. Styles had been summarily dismissed as Captain Meadows' steward after the first cold yet overcooked meal had been served, and he was certain that Styles had been the one to start the rumour that the rain at the captain's reading in was a sign of bad luck, and all those who stayed on the Hotspur were doomed to a fate worse than anything that the Frogs could inflict on them. Sailors were notoriously hard to dissuade from a rumour of bad luck and it did not help that Prowse agreed wholly that it could only come to bad.

Bush considered the inns and taverns in the immediate vicinity, but dismissed them out of hand. With the weather keeping up he would have a time of it getting a room so close to the shore. He moved into a side street, keeping his head down to avoid the driving rain. He could try and bespeak a room at Mrs Mason's boarding house, but he was not that desperate and there were other reasons to consider avoiding the place than just the prospect of Mrs Mason at her finest. Bush trudged on in the direction of the Lion; it was far enough away from the shore that there might be a room available, and they served a decent meal. Despite the rain, the street was teeming with tradesmen, carts and carriages going about their business and Bush found that he had to watch closely to avoid them. Finally he spied the sign of the Lion Inn and prepared to cross the road; he hoped that there would be a room, even if it was in the attic. He was wet, cold and he had longed for a warm fire and some wine to cut through the cold. He made it across the street without incident but before he could lay his hand on the door it opened in front of him to a familiar face. Andre Cotard looked as surprised to see him as he was to see the Major; he recovered quickly, though, and stepped aside to allow Bush to enter before stepping back in himself and closing the door.

Two men pushed past them without so much as a by your leave; one, a tall blond man in an army uniform of foreign origin, glanced at Cotard, catching his eye before looking away again. Neither of them spoke and, as the door snapped shut, Bush brought his attention back to the common room. The Lion Inn was busy; Bush looked around trying to spy the innkeeper. It was a moment before he recalled that Major Cotard was standing beside him, having said nothing since they had entered the room. Their eyes met, and the major smiled at him. Bush was reminded of a cat on the prowl.

“Mr Bush,” Cotard said, rolling the name off his tongue so that it sounded like 'Boosh'; Bush tried not be to irritated at Cotard's manner. “I am surprised to see you here. I had heard that the Hotspur was almost ready to sail.”

“Almost,” Bush said, taking his eyes off Cotard long enough to glance around the room for a table, or at least some room by the fire.

“You will find, I think, that there are no tables here, or rooms, if that is why you have come. It would be no loss to you in any case. The innkeeper here, he is a bore and he waters down the wine and the ale,” Cotard waved a dismissive hand. “The food is reasonable but as for the rest…”

“I see,” said Bush.

“But all is not lost, Mr Bush. I am staying close-by at the Sheet and Anchor. They are likely to have a room, if that is what you are after.” Cotard raised an eyebrow at him.

Damn the man, he could find no easy way to refuse him and he owed Major Cotard, if nothing else, a debt of gratitude. It would be boorish to refuse the offer. Bush nodded his assent and followed Cotard out the door.

* * * *

The tavern was hot, stuffy and crowded. Bush wondered why Cotard had invited him here. Cotard, he thought, would have better taste. The place was convivial enough, but it was the kind of tavern ratings frequented while ashore between commissions. It was not a place where he had considered that Major Cotard, so particular in his own comforts, would frequent. They had taken a table close to the fire, which had been conspicuously empty when they entered, and the major had immediately called for a drink to warm them. Bush wondered briefly about asking for a room but, since he had Cotard's assurances, he supposed he could wait.

"You do not approve, Mr Bush?" Cotard was saying.

Bush wondered if his expression had betrayed him; to cover his embarrassment, he took another sip from his mug of wine, rough but fruity, he thought. He nodded at the near-empty plate. "The food is good, Major, and the company pleasant."

"But not the kind of establishment you would expect an officer to frequent." Cotard studied his face from over his wine, leaving Bush feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"A surprising choice, Major. I would have expected that a man of your tastes would have chosen somewhere -"

"More elegant, Mr Bush?"

"I didn't say that." Bush replied.

"You didn't have to. But after I escaped France I did not always have the finances to accommodate my tastes. Surely you understand sometimes necessities require certain adjustments to be made."

"Yes, that I do appreciate," Bush replied. Surely his finances had improved since the early days of the war, and he could afford somewhere else, but perhaps he had fond memories of the place that kept him here.

"Have another drink, Mr Bush," Cotard said, and waved the nearby barmaid over. She was a saucy wench, who leaned over the table much further than she needed to in order to retrieve the mugs. "The rooms are also clean, reasonably priced, and private," he added, he had turned his head watching the barmaid retreat. Cotard turned to the table and winked.

Or perhaps there were other things that made him wish to return here: it was very likely Cotard was having a dalliance with the barmaid. Although she was not his type, Bush could understand the lure. Perhaps he should find a way to extricate himself from the proceedings so that Cotard could make his conquest.

"Major, I should be looking to get a room for the night. It’s getting late, and I fear that if I leave it much later then I will have little hope, even here," he said, hoping that the excuse would be enough, and that there would be a room that he could retreat to.

"I will ask on your behalf, Mr Bush; there is no need for concern," Cotard said, his mouth turning up at one side, as if he were amused by something. Perhaps it was simply at Bush's reluctance to stay.

"Thank you, major, for your efforts.”

"It is of no import, I assure you, Mr Bush,” Cotard said, leaning back into his chair, cradling the wine in his hands. "Have another drink and relax, Mr Bush."

Leaving was not going to be as easy as he first imagined. He would play the game for a while longer, he decided. Cotard would tire of it eventually, and then he could take a room and return to the Hotspur in the morning.

"As you wish," he said, throwing a tight smile in Cotard's direction. "She is a fine looking woman."

Cotard shook his head dismissively. "No, not her," he said. "You entirely misunderstand me, Mr Bush."

"Do I?"

Cotard returned his tight smile. "Yes, as you have from the outset, sir. But I hope that all will be forgiven soon, and we can reach an… understanding."

"I assure you, Major, I had thought any misunderstandings between us had long since been forgotten. I hold no ill-will against you. Your conduct in France was above reproach."

"I was thinking on a more personal level, Mr Bush. I would like to consider you a friend as well as a fellow officer. Is this possible?"

"I have been honoured to serve with you, Major Cotard, and I would consider it an honour to do so again. If we have the opportunity."

"And to share a berth? I ask forgiveness for my lack of grace at your generous offer when I first boarded the Hotspur."

"There is no need - Thankyou, sharing a berth with you again would be an honour," Bush amended and felt a twitch of a smile. "At least you don't snore."

"Another round, then, Mr Bush. I think we have reason to celebrate."

Bush relaxed back into his chair, and took another sip. Cotard was correct in saying that the wine here was better than anything he would have got at the Lion. Cotard seemed to be settling in himself, and Bush used the opportunity to look at the Inn more closely. The Sheet and Anchor was not as rough as he first imagined it to be; the crowd was surprisingly well-behaved and, despite the name, it appeared to be inhabited with townspeople rather than the rougher and more high spirited naval patronage of the inns that he usually visited when in port. It felt good to be away from the constant tension that had lately been his lot in the Hotspur. Even Cotard had surprised him by being a gracious companion. It felt good to be able to sit with a companion, and not to be forced into unwanted conversation. Cotard appeared to be in a brown study and Bush found that he was loathe to disturb him.

Cotard must have felt Bush's eyes on him; he shook himself slightly and eyed Bush with a rueful expression on his face. “Forgive me, Mr Bush. I fear that I am not being the best of companions.”

“That is quite all right, Major, I was enjoying the relative peace.”

“As you say, Mr Bush. But call me Andre; I think that we have seen enough action to dispense with the formalities, would you not say?”

“It would be an honour, ma- Andre,” Bush replied. “My name is William.”

Cotard took a sip of his wine, and eyed Bush for a moment, before speaking again in a deliberately causal tone, “I saw Captain Hornblower not three days ago. He was at the coaching inn, just about to get on the London mail.”

“Indeed,” Bush said.

“Yes, his little wife was with him,” Cotard's eyes narrowed as he studied Bush more closely. “There are some women who should never cry in public. They do not have the complexion to carry it off. Mrs Hornblower is among them, although I am certain that she makes Captain Hornblower happy in other ways it was rather unseemly.”

“Did you, by chance, speak with the captain?”

“No, no, I did not think it my place to intrude on such an intimate scene,” Cotard – Andre, Bush reminded himself – shook his head. “Your cup must be empty by now,” Cotard waved over the barmaid and whispered something in her ear before turning his attention, once again, to Mr Bush. “And you now have a new captain, do you not?”

“We do,” Bush said. “And you, Andre, have you any plans?”

“Not at present; I appear to be at my leisure. There are worse ways to spend one's time, but…” Cotard trailed off as the innkeeper came to his side. They had a low conversation that Bush could not hear. The man nodded once and walked off. “I am afraid that there are no rooms available,” Cotard announced.

“Then, perhaps it is time for me to leave,” Bush said. He glanced out the dirty window; darkness had fallen as they had whiled away the afternoon.

“There is no need. I have a room here, as you know. We can share for one night, William. I think you would be hard-pressed to find anything at this hour. I assure you it will be more comfortable than a mouldy hammock.”

He could not refuse, and it would be unwise to do so. He had left it too late to look elsewhere. “Thank you again, Andre,” he said, raising his cup once more.

“Then, you stay?”

“Of course. Perhaps we need another round,” Bush said.

“Well, good, then,” he said, and Bush was puzzled to note that Cotard had what was, perhaps, the first genuine smile he had seen on his face in their short association. Cotard raised his glass. “To friendship,” he toasted.

Bush noted that the knot that had been forming in his stomach for over a week now had loosened, and echoed his toast. “To friendship.”

* * * *

William Bush stood up and was surprised when he swayed. It had been a long evening and it was time he was abed so that he could leave at first light. He was certain that Captain Meadows would reproach him if he were late, and with good reason. Bush studied Cotard: he did not seem as worse for wear and he took the lead as they wove through the thinning crowd to the narrow staircase which led to the rooms.

“We are on the second floor,” Cotard said, allowing Bush to move ahead of him.

It was slow going as Bush's eyes reluctantly adjusted to the pitch black of the stairwell; he put a steadying hand on the wall so that he would not fall. Cotard was close behind him and Bush could feel his breathing on the back of his neck. They reached the first landing and then continued up; Bush was increasingly glad of Cotard's steadying presence behind him. At the second landing he moved aside so that Cotard could show the way to the room. The hallway was lighted by a single candle, which cast a dull light only partly down its length. He would not have been able to find the room if Cotard had not been there. Bush followed him and waited as Cotard fumbled for his key.

Finally he had the door open, and, once through the door, he closed it behind him and leaned up against it for support. He could barely hear Cotard fumbling around the room past the rain on the roof, and the rattle of the window. Cotard lit a candle, and Bush closed his eyes from the sudden brightness. When he opened them again, Cotard was next to him; close enough that he could smell the wine on his breath.

“Are you all right, Mr Bush?” Cotard said; solicitousness in every word.

“Of course,” he replied, a little too quickly. His pulse was racing and he did not know why.

“I have a question for you, if I am not being too bold.”

“Yes?”

Bush closed his eyes again, and heard Cotard step closer. He didn't bother to reopen them again as he heard Cotard whisper into his ear, “The barmaid, William, were you jealous of her?”

“I - no,” Bush said.

“I thought perhaps that you were, and I wanted to assure you that Fanny is of no consequence to me at all. In fact there was only one person in that room that I wished to kiss tonight.”

“Indeed?” Bush cracked an eye open.

“Yes,” Cotard said with conviction, “and that man is standing directly in front of me.”

He felt Cotard's body against him, and Cotard brushed his lips against his. Bush did not try to stop him, although a distant part of his mind warned him against it; Cotard must have taken it as a signal. The next kiss was longer and Bush fell into it, trying no to think about what he was doing, and with whom. His hands, he thought desperately; he should do something with his hands, but they stayed where they were. They were frozen, like the rest of him. Finally, the kiss broke apart and Bush was surprised to realise that he had closed his eyes once more.

“Was it as bad as you expected it would be?” Cotard asked.

“I had not expected anything.”

“Perhaps there are others that do not value you as they should, William.”

Cotard leaned into Bush's body, and he felt one of his hands trail down his back. “We can stop here, if you are uncomfortable. I do not wish to - impose.”

It was too late for that; Bush did not wish him to move away. “There is no… Imposition,” Bush said. It was hard to get the words out. Finally he lifted his arms from his side and hesitantly wrapped them around Cotard's back. Beneath the jacket Cotard's back was firm; his physique did not give the appearance of a man who had led a sedentary life, and he could feel the hardness of his cock through his breeches, pressed against his leg. When Cotard leaned in again he did not resist.

He did not know how they had made it across the room, or when they had divested themselves of their jackets, but when Bush became aware again they were lying on the bed and he could feel Cotard's weight atop of him. Cotard's breath was becoming more ragged now; he could feel it against his neck and then a tugging at the waist of his breeches as hands groped to undo buttons.

“I think, that you need this,” Cotard said and kissed him more thoroughly than before. Cotard then slid down his body; his hands, which had been at his breeches, were now trailing down the length of him. Slowly, one by one, Cotard undid the buttons of his waistcoat; Bush was mesmerised, their eyes met, and Cotard slowly smiled. He ran his fingernails down Bush's shirt, and Bush shuddered involuntarily at the sensation. Then, before he could form another thought, his breeches were unbuttoned.

“Wha - ” hands were tugging at his smallclothes and the pressure that had been building up there was released.

“Trust me, you will like this,” Cotard said.

Bush's eyes flew open as he felt a hand on his cock, and they slammed shut again as that same hand assumed a rhythm up and down it. The pressure that had been released was building again, and he found that he could only gasp at each new sensation. He felt a warm heat on the tip of his cock and he shuddered; all conscious thought fled and all he could feel was the pressure of the hands and the mouth and tongue moving up and down. His balls tightened and he wanted release; he gasped again and arched his back, feeling the release, before falling into oblivion.

* * * *

Bush awoke to the pounding of the rain and the heat of another body beside him. He opened his eyes and peered around the room, trying to remember just where he was. The candle that lit the room was almost gutted, and in the light of the near-spent candle he saw two jackets strewn across the floor then it came back in a rush. He noticed that his shirt was riding half-way up his stomach and he felt the coldness of the sticky mess further down. That meant that the warm mass beside him was Andre Cotard… and they had just done the unthinkable. He shifted slightly, shivering as he noticed the cold that accompanied the rain and wondered what he should do next.

His movement must have awoken Cotard, because he heard a mumble beside him; Bush instantly froze, hoping he would fall asleep and in the morning this would all be part of a peculiar dream. The mumbling continued for a moment and then there was a hand on his stomach, groping; the hand wound itself around his own and grabbed on, by reflex Bush grasped back and the figure beside him settled. Somehow, the blanket had ended up at their feet. It took no small amount of manoeuvring to get it free without disturbing the other companion in the bed. Eventually Bush managed to get it over the both of them. He rested his head more deeply on the pillow and listened to the sound of the pounding rain, hoping that it would lull him to sleep. Bush thought about extricating the hand, but decided against it; he could talk to Cotard – Andre – later, when they had the leisure. Bush screwed his eyes shut and tried to have regrets about what they had both done, but could not. It could wait for the morning; he listened to the rain, the candle finally extinguished itself, and somewhere between then and morning, Bush fell asleep.

* * * *

Bush awoke again some time before first light; he listened to the distant sounds of bells in the harbour and realised that the rain must have let up, although he could still hear it falling against the window pane. He rolled over and when he pushed himself up into a sitting position he was somewhat embarrassed to realise that he was still in his shirt-sleeves.

As a glimmer of memory returned he felt his cheeks go hot; he was not fully dressed and the bed that had held another person when he had finally dropped off asleep now had only one occupant. Where had Cotard gone to? There were no other vacant rooms in the Inn, or so he had told him last night before... Bush shook his head to clear it, and frowned as the previous evening came back to him. He should regret what had happened; it was his duty to regret it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked a little unsteadily over to the chamber pot. He was buttoning his breeches when the door opened and Cotard entered the room.

“I was despairing that you would never awaken,” Cotard said. “I have been downstairs for some hot water, in case you wished to leave.”

“There is time, yet,” Bush said cautiously. He would not leave until he understood Cotard's intent more clearly.

“I have a razor, and other supplies here, if you wish to use them,” Cotard walked to the washstand and deposited the jug next to it. He then pulled a bag out from underneath the bed, and offered Bush a razor and several other articles. It would be rude to refuse, and Bush took them from Cotard with a sharp nod of thanks before heading to the washstand. If he wished him to leave, for whatever reason, he had best be ready.

He shrugged out of his waistcoat; tugged at his neckcloth to loosen it, and poured some water into the stand. He heard the bed creak as Cotard sat back on it, but did not look around. Best to concentrate on the task at hand, matters would resolve themselves soon enough. He reached for the shaving soap and tried to lose himself in his task. It was not easy. He had the prickly sensation that told him Cotard's eyes were on his back. Cotard was most probably impatient for him to leave; Bush deliberately slowed down - he had no wish, now, to pander to his sensibilities. He had been more than a guest in this room, and he felt his anger rising with each stroke of the razor on his cheeks. He felt humiliated to be used in such a way, and it did not set well with him. That Cotard could even contemplate doing such a thing was almost incomprehensible to him. He set down the razor slowly and deliberately back on the edge of the stand before wiping off the residue of the shaving soap with a piece of towelling. There was nothing for it; they must have this out as soon as possible. He would at least leave knowing that he had Cotard's silence, if nothing else. He turned around to face him.

“I have seen more welcoming expressions when facing a man at ten paces, Mr Bush. Are you so eager to leave?”

“I thought that you wanted me…”

“You are my guest, Mr Bush, William. I only wished to ensure your comfort. You thought that I - ” Cotard shook his head. “After what it took to get you here? I only wish that you could stay longer. At least the morning.”

Bush nodded slowly, “I see…” Bush sat down heavily on the bed beside Cotard; the room was getting lighter and as he looked at Andre Cotard he saw a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “You don't think that I do see,” Bush said.

“You English, you think you know it all when it comes to the ways of the heart. In France, we were much more liberal; until recently. Why must we question what gives us pleasure? Life is too short, and, unless it has escaped you, we are at war. Why live with regrets?”

“Because those regrets could get you killed; if they were to become known,” Bush returned a little too quickly.

“But we are not aboard your ship…and you can count on my discretion.”

“I know, but - ”

“You think that your duty should come ahead of personal concerns?”

“Yes,” Bush said; it was something that he had never thought to question, and he would not start now.

“I expected nothing less from you, lieutenant,” Cotard said, before rising from his seat on the bed and making his way to the wash stand. “Breakfast will be served shortly; will you join me? I believe we have time.”

“Of course,” Bush said.

The world was a much better place, Bush decided, once you had a meal in you. Cotard had kept up a light conversation since they had sat down at the table; their meal of bacon, eggs and fresh bread had been brought to the table in short order, and the smell had been almost overwhelming. It was a change; a welcome change, from the ships biscuit and salt beef that they had been forced to endure on the Hotspur due to the inclement weather. It was good to sit next to the fire, eating fresh food and drinking ale.

“Mr Bush, I do not think that I have ever seen a meal eaten with such relish. Do they not feed you aboard that ship of yours?”

“Nothing as good as this, I assure you,” Bush said in return. “Salt beef, as I am sure you will attest, does not compare to a good, hot meal ashore.”

“My first meal, back here, was a great luxury, Mr Bush. But my appetite was not quite as vigorous as yours. Would you like me to order you some more? I can call Fanny over, if that is what you wish?”

“No, I have had quite enough for now, and I will soon have to leave.” Bush looked out of the window. The rain was pelting against its panes now, and he found that he was not looking forward to negotiating the slippery streets down to the docks. His mind turned to the difficulty he might have in attaining a boat to take him to the Hotspur.

“Would you like me to accompany you? It would only take me a moment to go upstairs for my coat.”

“There is no need, major. I do not see the need for both of us to get wet.”

“As you say, Mr Bush,” Cotard said.

“And I had better be off, or I will not be back in time. It has been a pleasure, Major.” Bush stood up and extended a hand over the table.

Taking his hand Cotard said, “I keep rooms here all year round, Mr Bush. If you are in need of company the next time you are in port I would be glad to see you again.”

He did not release it straight away and, to Bush, his meaning was clear; Bush felt a stirring which he ruthlessly suppressed. “Thank you major, for your kind offer.”

“It is no trouble, Mr Bush.”

Bush donned his coat and walked to the door; but before he left he turned and looked at the major, who merely nodded in return. He wrapped the coat more closely around himself and walked out into the pouring rain. In time what had happened here would seem like a mere flight of fantasy, he assured himself; not worth thinking about and not worth remembering.

 

* * * * 

Lieutenant Bush tried not to consider himself unlucky as the hoy Princess approached its anchorage at Portsmouth, but he was having a great deal of trouble convincing himself. The Hotspur had been wrecked on Black Rock; that in itself was unfortunate, and Captain Meadows had been reprimanded at his court-martial for the navigational error. Fortunately the reprimand had not extended to Bush himself and he would not have a black mark on his record.

“Well, there she is,” Captain Baddlestone said, “I bet you never thought you'd see that sight again.”

Bush was startled out of his reverie by the voice. Captain Baddlestone had all but ignored his navy passengers for most of the voyage back, seemingly content with the money that he was extorting from them for the passage and wanting little to do with them otherwise. “It is a welcome sight, captain,” he said.

“And one that I did not think that I would see again! I am sorry that your captain did not make it, lieutenant, but I thought that his idea of taking a French ship with a waterhoy was doomed from the start. I can't believe that he convinced me to attempt it.”

“It was better than being captured and ending up in a French prison for the remainder of the war, captain.” Bush snapped. The loss of the Hotspur had been hard on Captain Meadows, and the court martial more to endure. At least the attempted taking of the French ship had returned some of his dignity to him, and it was better to die fighting the enemy than to buckle under.

“I'm sure that Meadows would agree, if he had survived…”

Bush fingered the documents in his jacket that he had taken from the French captain's cabin before they had abandoned their attempt. By all rights they belonged to Baddlestone as captain of the hoy. Technically, even though he was a civilian contractor under the command of a naval officer at the time of the attack, it was still his ship and his command. He hesitated, and then drew them out of his jacket. “Sir, I believe that these belong to you, as prizes of war.”

Baddlestone took them off him and his brow creased as he studied them. “And what, pray, do you think that I am to do with these?”

“They could be of great value, captain; surely you see…”

“Oh, I see all right. Don't you worry about that! We'd have not even tried to take that ship if it weren't for your captain. By rights he should get the credit, and we both know it.” Baddlestone shoved the documents back into Bush's hands. “You take 'em. You'll have precious enough money being on half pay, and I render that you have not a belonging to your name, do you? At least I'll get my fare out of you this way.”

Bush was taken aback. This was the first sign of generosity that he had seen in the man since he boarded the waterhoy for his journey home a week ago. He was not surprised that it was short lived; Baddlestone turned his back on him before he could utter any word of thanks and returned to the task of bringing his small ship into port.

He put the parcel back into his jacket pocket, and stared at the approaching shore. This was not the way he had expected to come home; not even with Styles' dire predictions of bad luck. The first several months at sea had been uneventful, and he should have predicted that they would not last. Perhaps these captured documents would prove to be a change of luck for him. There was nothing for it but to wait and see what the Port Admiral had to say about them.

* * * *

It was early in the afternoon by the time Bush stepped onto the street; the carriage was at the gate, and the courier, who was to take the captured documents to London, was getting aboard. The name of the courier escaped him, more than likely he was one of the Port Admiral's favourites who had been promised a promotion; this was certain to get him into favour, considering the look on the Admiral's face when he had seen the parcel. Bush had assumed that these were something more significant than signal books; the heavy lead covered document, especially, had the feel of something more official. Now, they were on their way to London, along with the report he had been asked to write, and he had to find himself some form of accommodation and hope that he was offered a post on a ship soon. He had a little money since the Admiral had seen fit to advance some against his half-pay and he supposed that he could contact his sisters if his situation became direr. He ought to write to them, but the thought of writing another letter right now, though, did not please him and he had to find somewhere to sleep the night and only then he would think more on it.

He wandered along the streets without any destination in mind but he was not overly surprised when he found himself at the docks. As usual, they were crowded with supplies, officers and mollies waiting for a willing sailor. He pushed through the crowd; this was no place to be. A sailor without a ship was a sorry sight, and he did not feel like explaining himself if he were to come across someone that he knew. It was likely to happen considering most of these ships were either from the blockade or supplying the fleet. He turned up the nearest street; his stomach was rumbling, reminding him that he had not eaten today. An inn and some breakfast was what he needed to clear his head. He spied the sign of The Lamb and entered, taking the nearest table.

He was drinking his second ale when the door opened behind him, bringing more customers in. Bush was content to drink his ale and wait for them to take a seat and let their voices drift back into the general background noise. His meal had been a long time in coming; that was one thing he had forgotten about the inn and he wondered if the cook, who was notorious for drinking the profits, had managed to get himself drunk and forget about his customers.

“Good day, Mr Bush – you are the last person I expected to see in such a disreputable establishment,” came a voice, a very familiar one, from behind. He turned to see Andre Cotard standing behind him.

“The same could be said of you, major,” Bush returned.

“I am here with some friends,” Cotard said. “I did not hear that the Hotspur was in port. When did you arrive?”

“Today – and I am afraid that I am without a ship. The Hotspur was wrecked a week ago.”

“I hope the casualties were not too high, lieutenant. She was a fine ship.”

“No, we were fortunate. But it leaves me without employment, for the moment.” Though not for too much longer, Bush added to himself.

“Then I can assume you have nothing pressing to prevent you from joining us?”

Bush looked up slightly startled, and then over at the table where Cotard's companions sat. There was one in a uniform the same as Cotard's and the other appeared to be in civilian garb. He had nothing better to do, he supposed, “Of course, major.”

“Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Bush, of His Majesty's Sloop Hotspur,” Cotard said, by way of an introduction. “And, these, Mr Bush, are my friends: Major Beaufort,” motioning to the man in uniform, “and Mr Alistair.”

“Gentlemen,” Bush said.

Cotard sat next to him and waved the barmaid over to order another round. Bush took the opportunity to study the other men at the table: Major Beaufort was a sandy haired man with an air of Gallic arrogance about him; by comparison Mr Alistair seemed small and closed, as though he was trying to become part of the very table. He kept his eyes down, seemingly more interested in studying his hands and the cracks in the wood. Their meal soon arrived; Beaufort, it appeared, had come from London to conduct some kind of business with the nervous Alistair, who stammered through most of the conversation. Nonetheless, the conversation was varied, and Beaufort proved more interested in the amusement to be had in town than the business he was conducting.

“So, gentlemen, will you accompany me to the Longrooms this evening?” Beaufort concluded.

“Pierre, I cannot. I have a previous engagement,” Cotard said.

“As do I,” Bush said. In truth he did not, but he did not think that he could suffer the man's company for a whole evening.

“I shall try to enjoy myself despite your absence. Mr Alistair, you will be joining me, will you not?”

“Of course,” Alistair stammered.

“But we have lingered long enough; Mr Alistair and I still have to make certain arrangements that cannot be delayed indefinitely. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance Mr Bush. Andre, perhaps later,” Beaufort said, pushing back his chair. Alistair made his quick farewells and left on Beaufort's heels, leaving Bush and Cotard alone.

“You did really not have any plans, did you, Mr Bush?” Cotard said. “The man can be insufferable, but we served together and he can be amusing, on occasion.”

“No, I didn't have any plans, as such. Where did you serve with the major?”

“We were in the Royalist Toulon regiment together. We were among the lucky ones who managed to get passage aboard a ship before the city was retaken.”

“I did not know,” Bush said.

“It is of little consequence, now, Mr Bush.”

Bush nodded slowly. He had heard that the streets ran red after the city was recaptured, and that Madame Guillotine had been kept busy night and day dealing with the insurgents. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Your family, major, did they survive?”

“I was merely stationed in Toulon; my family were at their estate. But once the names of the insurgents were known, then they were potentially also against the revolution. I did not get word to them in time.”

“My condolences, major,” Bush said.

Cotard thumped a fist onto the table, and then looked at Bush again with a twist of his mouth. “Enough of this unpleasantness. Do you have accommodation as yet?”

“Not as yet.”

“My invitation still stands, Mr Bush.”

“I had not thought to impose,” Bush said, and he had not. Memories of their previous encounter flitted across his mind. He should find somewhere else.

“It will be no imposition as I have told you before. It will make your half pay last longer, and there are other advantages. I assure you, Mr Bush, that I make a tolerable room mate,” Cotard said, gently grabbing his arm and leading him to the door.

The room was the same as Bush remembered it from his previous visit; Cotard was a meticulously tidy person, which struck Bush as being odd. He thought back on the last time he was here and realised that he had not been here long enough to remember anything of the man, or his habits. He liked to think of himself as a reasonably good judge of men, but he knew almost nothing about Andre Cotard, despite the fact that they had shared a cabin and been in battle together. He would have thought it shameful, if Cotard had been in his crew – especially if he had been one of the officers to share the wardroom with him – not to know at least a little about him.

“I will make some space for your belongings, Mr Bush. Do you wish to send for them?”

Bush shrugged his shoulders. “I have all of my belongings with me, major. We were unable to save anything from the Hotspur.”

“My apologies. I did not think… but of course. You have funds to procure more?”

“When I get a draft against my bank, yes, major. I am in no difficulty on that account.”

“I am pleased to hear that but, if you wish to borrow any thing you have only but to ask.”

“I will, major,” Bush said.

“And, if you have no plans for the evening, Mr Bush, would you like to accompany me to the Lion for supper – and perhaps some cards afterwards, if you are so inclined?”

“I should like that above all things, major,” Bush said.

Cotard eyed Bush, and half-smiled at him. “Have I not asked before that you call me by my given name? We are friends, are we not? There is no need to stand on ceremony among friends.”

“You did, indeed, Andre.”

It seemed that Cotard had finished with the previous subject, and Bush felt slightly bewildered that Cotard seemed to be able to jump from thought to thought with no seeming connection to them. “We have some time, William; I will ring for a bath and arrange to get your jacket brushed.”

“There is no need - ”

“I insist, and I wish for a bath myself, so…”

Bush nodded and said no more. He was Cotard's guest, at least until he could make other arrangements. He had best make the most of it.

* * * *

Bush awoke before dawn in a cold sweat. He tried to recall the fragments of the dream that had awoken him, but they were gone before he could make sense of it. The dawn was approaching, and Bush knew from experience that he would not be able to get back to sleep; his sailor's instinct told him that it was time to get up, even if the bells were not tolling. He rolled out of the bed and proceeded to get dressed. Perhaps a walk would clear the last vestiges of the dream away. He let himself out of the room, careful to keep quiet lest he awake Cotard, who was on landsmen's time and would most probably sleep the rest of the morning away.

He found himself heading for the docks again, but turned before he could reach them. Instead he headed for the ramparts, and their view of the harbour. He wandered slowly along and let the stiff breeze clear his head. It had been a late night; extended by Cotard's friends who had insisted on game after game of cards. Bush had not participated in the game; he had little enough funds as it was without losing more. When they had arrived at the room, they had fallen into the bed, tired enough to disregard any discomfort that they may have felt. Perhaps staying with Cotard would not be as bad as he initially thought. He stopped and looked at the harbour, before turning on his heels; if he were to get another ship he had much to do, and standing here would not get him there any faster.

Cotard had left the room by the time of his return. Bush could not help but be surprised, since he had not expected him to rise for some time yet. He located the writing materials Cotard had insisted that he use the night before in order to write to his sisters and set to work.

He was closing the letter and looking for some wax to seal it when Cotard re-entered the room; he was flushed in the face and had a preoccupied air about him, which quickly changed when he saw Bush.

"I was surprised to see you up and about so early. I would have thought that, given the chance to do so, you would take the opportunity to enjoy your freedom from the rigours of life at sea," Cotard said.

"Some habits are not so easy to break."

"That may be so. But in your absence I decided that you might wish for news of your fellow colleagues," Cotard said, handing over a copy of a newspaper. It was the Naval Chronicle; Bush resisted the temptation to open it straight away, instead thanking Cotard for his consideration and returning to the letter.

"Perhaps it will contain news of your own heroic exploits," Cotard said, twisting his mouth into almost a smile.

"I very much doubt that."

“Come, William. Do not be so modest. I am certain that you have had many daring adventures since we last met.”

Cotard had to be jesting and it was a very poor joke. Bush had to remind himself that Cotard was an army officer, and a landsman. He did not understand the ways of the sea and sailors. “We were on blockade duty; there is nothing heroic about wearing up and down the coast keeping the ships from coming out of their port,” he said.

“But there is, even if you do not know it. Is not a blockade a form of siege? I would not feel that I had wasted my time laying siege to a city. You British are far too modest about your exploits.”

“I will read the paper when I return. My sisters will be awaiting word from me and this cannot wait.”

“As you say,” Cotard said. “I will see you at breakfast, will I not?”

“Of course,” Bush said.

Bush returned from breakfast alone; Cotard had excused himself as he had some business associates to meet; promising that he would return in due course. The paper was where he had left it on the small desk; he picked it up and sat down on the bed to read it. He resisted the temptation to search through the paper to see if there had been any mention of the action with the French ship; instead he started at the first page and slowly began leafing his way through. The paper had steadily grown in size since the recommencement of the war, and at the very least it provided some distraction.

The door snapping closed jerked him out of his reading. “I did not think that you would be returning so soon, major.”

“My contact was unexpectedly called back to London and my plans for today are all asunder,” Cotard said. He reached for a book off the bookshelf and sat on the chair. “Do not let me disturb you from your reading.”

Bush turned his eyes back to the paper and tried to lose himself in it again. At first he read past the article, but there it was: 20th May 1805, A Court Martial assembled aboard His Majesty's Ship Hibernia, on station at Brest, for the trial of James Percival Meadows, Esq., Commander, the officers, and crew of His Majesty's late sloop Hotspur, for the loss of the sloop by stranding on rocks during the night of the eighteenth of May...

He let his eyes skim over the rest of the article; he did not need to read about the court-martial or Meadows' subsequent reprimand. There was nothing more, and his eyebrows creased as he read the rest of the page and then the next. Captain Meadows' death was not recorded here, nor was the action against the French ship; there was no mention of the waterhoy at all. Possibly it was too early for the news to have reached the paper, but he did not think that it was the case. For the first time since he had handed them over, Bush wished that he had opened the packet taken from the French ship to determine what was in it. He snapped the paper closed and dropped it on the bed.

“Not bad news, I hope,” Cotard said, concerned. His book lay closed on the table.

“Nothing unexpected,” Bush said.

Cotard nodded slowly, and made as if to reach for his book. His hand stopped mid-motion and he withdrew it. “I hear that Major Beaufort has not yet concluded his business. I saw his business partner on my way back here. If you are not otherwise occupied, perhaps we could join them for a meal and some cards afterwards.”

“I must make further arrangements. I still need to replace my kit, and I cannot stay here on your charity indefinitely,” Bush said.

“It is not charity, William. If you wish to make the arrangement more equitable you can pay a portion of the rent,” Cotard said.

“That would be agreeable,” Bush said, feeling a certain weight lifted off his shoulders. He knew that he would be better off finding a room of his own, but that could wait and perhaps he would have a ship sooner than later. “I will meet you later, then.”

“At the Lion, I think. It should not be difficult to persuade Pierre.”

Bush pushed himself up from the bed and made for the door. “I will see you there,” he said, and then closed the door behind him.

* * * *

Bush did not arrive at the Lion until much later that afternoon, by which time he had managed to make the majority of his purchases, and withdraw a little money against his half pay. He scanned the room for red army coats, and spied Cotard and Beaufort sitting at a corner table with Alistair making up the third. They were deep in conversation, with their heads close together and even to Bush's unpractised eye they appeared to be conspiring. He pushed his way through the crowd toward them, curious as to the subject of their conversation. His approach remained unnoticed, even though he saw Alistair nervously flick his eyes around the crowd before turning back to the two Frenchmen.

As he approached them, Beaufort thumped his fist on the table, startling Alistair. He could not see Cotard's reaction, but something else was said and Beaufort viciously shook his head and then rose from the table, pushing his way through the crowd. Alistair followed closely behind. Bush stood for a minute staring at the table and Cotard's back; Cotard straightened up and ran his hands through his hair before dropping them back onto the table. Bush realised that he had a choice: return to the room and pretend he had seen nothing or approach the table and let the cards fall where they may. He hesitated, and then continued through the crowd.

"Major," he said, "I seem to have missed your other guests."

"We...had a disagreement. I do not think that they would have been good company." Cotard took a swig from his tankard, made a face, and then pushed it away from him. "And I find that I am no longer in the mood for cards." He looked distastefully at the crowd. "I think. I think I wish to go for a walk. Would you care to join me, William?"

Cotard set off at a fast pace, and Bush had trouble keeping up with him. There was no conversation as Cotard led him back along the same path that Bush had taken just that morning. Bush could see clouds gathering, and realised that they were in for more rain. He wondered if, in his rage, Cotard was looking at where he was going at all.

“He is a fool,” Cotard snapped.

“Who is a fool?” Bush asked.

“Pierre is a fool,” Cotard said, stopping mid-pace and turning to face Bush. “But you would not understand. What he is proposing, it is suicide.”

“I cannot understand if I do not know what you are talking about,” Bush said reasonably.

Cotard peered at him, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Of course, you do not know. How could you? Perhaps we should go somewhere more private and I will explain." His mind made up, he led the way back down the hill.

Cotard closed the door to their room at the Sheet and Anchor lightly, and sat on the chair by the table, but remained silent until Bush sat on the bed. Cotard stared down at his hands, and seemed as though he were trying to contain himself, before lifting his head and meeting Bush's eyes. It was Bush who pulled away from the contact; Cotard’s stare was uncomfortably direct, and Bush shifted on the bed concerned that he was about to hear something that would be better left unsaid.

“I feel I owe you an explanation, William, but what I tell you is in confidence. As an officer and a gentleman, I ask you to keep what I have to say to you private.”

Bush nodded slowly, he had little choice. “You have my word, Andre.”

“Good. My friend, Pierre, has been in France more recently than myself. His recent business here concerns that, and I have been assisting him where possible. There have been recent - complications - that we had not anticipated, and that has meant certain adjustments have had to be made.”

“What, may I be so bold to ask, has his business been in France? Surely, he would be known there?”

“It is of a delicate nature. Officially, he is attempting to have his family removed to England, which Alistair is assisting in negotiating, but he has various contacts on the continent by which we are attempting to -”

“You are spying?” Bush interrupted. There was something he had read recently about a Duke who had been executed at Napoleon's order, what was his name? “This recent complication, which you spoke of, was that because of the execution of the Bourbon duke?”

“It was an unfortunate occurrence; we were betrayed, of that I am certain. To continue, and play into the hands of Fouche, would be suicide. I am having difficulty persuading Pierre against this course of action,” Cotard said, his voice even and calm.

Bush felt his jaw clenching, “I would call it more than unfortunate, Cotard. Have you so little regard for another's life that this was allowed to happen?” Surely he could see that such clandestine dealings were wrong. War should be fought in the open, not in back alleys with lies and falsities.

“We had little warning, not enough to affect any kind of rescue. What is done is done.” Cotard straightened in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “The duc d'Enghien understood the risks, and took measures himself to minimise them. What more could we do?”

Bush could feel the rage bubbling up inside him; he rose from his chair, clenching his fists as he did. “Perhaps you would be more fortunate, without needlessly risking lives, if you did not engage in such activities at all.”

“You willingly risk lives every time you go into battle, Mr Bush. This is hardly different,” Cotard said mildly.

“For spying you can be executed without trial. I would not be so willing to compare the two. The risks are not the same, and you know it.”

“That did not stop your 'friend' Wolfe from engaging in such activities, did it? Should we not fight fire with fire? Even your Captain Hornblower saw the need, did he not? We all have our secrets. If they help depose the Corsican, then…” Cotard raised his hands.

“I would hardly compare Wolfe's betrayal to what you and your colleagues are doing, sir. Spying is hardly an honourable profession” Bush shook his head to try and clear it of some of the anger. “And I do not know if I wish to associate with men who are willing to engage in such activities.”

“Then you, sir, are a hypocrite.” Cotard him and rose from his seat to face Bush. There was steel in his eyes that Bush had not seen before. There was no honour at all in this kind of deception, Bush thought, and if he was willing to throw aside his good name so easily for this, then what else was he willing to do? He had let himself think that Cotard was above these kinds of acts, and he had been mistaken. He should have gone with his instincts. He stalked to the door; if he were to answer him it would be with a challenge - best to leave before events turned for the worst.

“I will send for my belongings, Cotard,” he said.

Cotard's grip was hard on his hand as they both reached for the handle at the same time. “Perhaps I was mistaken to confide in you, Mr Bush. I thought that you of all people would understand the risks that we are taking, and see their worth. Did you not, yourself, hand papers over to the Port Admiral on your arrival? The same ones that are now in London at the Admiralty?”

How could Cotard have known of this? It was impossible! “The papers that you refer to were taken in fair battle, Cotard. It is not the same, and you know it,” he said.

The grip on his hand grew tighter, “They will be used as intelligence, Bush, and if you believe that they will not be used to England's advantage, then you are mistaken. They will be used by spies, sir, and you provided them with the information. We are not as different as you wish to believe,” Cotard said, his voice was sharp and urgent. Bush turned to face him.

“Perhaps not so, but at least I can say that I got those papers in an honourable manner. Can you say the same for your activities in France?”

“Many needless lives may be lost because of those papers, Bush. They may have been better off at the bottom of the ocean where they could do no harm,” Cotard said, stepping closer. “What would you know of it? You did not even think to open them, did you?”

Bush stepped past Cotard trapping him against the door, “But you would have, and you would have taken matters into your own hands,” he all but spat out; he was close enough now to smell the remains of the ale on Cotard's breath.

“Perhaps,” Cotard said. “I do not like to lose.”

“Is that what this is all about to you?”

“What else is there?”

Bush ground his teeth together, and his mind fled back to the night they had spent together in this very room, so many months ago, “I can think of something,” he said. He grabbed Cotard's hand and crushed him up against the door. The kiss was long and hard, and Bush did not stop to think about what he was doing; Cotard stiffened against the door, taken by surprise.

They broke apart at last; Cotard's eyes were wild. Bush was pleased to see Cotard’s composure had broken at last, but he was horrified at his own conduct. He had no wish to humiliate Cotard, no matter what had passed between them here. He would keep his word, and not speak a word of what they had talked about, and certainly not this subsequent action. He pushed away from the door and took a step back, his eyes still on Cotard's face.

“Why did you stop?” Cotard asked.

“I thought - ”

“You think entirely too much, William. It is one of your most endearing qualities. But I would very much like you to kiss me again,” Cotard said.

Bush stopped at that, unsure what to say; “And you, Andre, talk far too much,” he retorted, but the argument had lost its sting for him..

“So it has been said before. By you among others. I thought that you were a man of actions, even if you were a man of few words,” Cotard taunted.

“You are mistaken, Cotard. One should only act if they have the tactical advantage.

“And do you have the tactical advantage at the moment, Bush? I am afire in anticipation to discover if this is so.”

Enough with words; Bush was well aware that they could spar like this until the sun went down, but Bush found he did not wish to do so. Something else had taken over and he knew that Cotard would get the better of him. Before he could think more about what he was going to do next he acted: “I have been told that surprise tactics often work best,” Bush said, stepping in for another kiss. This time he did not break the embrace until he was spinning and not a little weak at the knees.

“I stand corrected,” Cotard said. His lips were red and his face flushed. “You are indeed a tactician, and a man of action. But I wish something more.”

When Cotard placed a hand on his thigh, Bush was aroused by the thought of more…action. The fingers scraped along the fabric, and he felt a thrill up his spine. “Did you have anything particular in mind?” he murmured into Cotard’s ear, “Or did you wish to stay here?”

“I do not know, William. Have you ever made love up against a door?”

“In an alley, once,” he confessed. “Against a door; never.”

“Then it will be a new experience for us both,” Cotard replied easily; he circled his other arm around Bush’s back, pulling him in for another kiss. The hands roamed underneath his jacket, pushing it up before coming to rest on his arse, drawing him in closer to Cotard. He could feel the push of Cotard’s erection against his breeches, and it matched his own. The kiss drowned out all further thought, and Bush found the feel of Cotard’s stubble rubbing up against his own strangely erotic.

The hands were again under his jacket and pulling at the waistband of his breeches. “We are entirely too overdressed if this is to continue,” Cotard said between kisses. He could not help but agree. His breeches were decidedly uncomfortable.

There was a tugging at his neckcloth, and he felt it loosen “I could use some help,” Cotard said.

He felt his way down to the waistband of Cotard’s breeches, “If you insist,” he said. The buttons were hard to find with Cotard grinding against him, but with a little difficulty he had them free. The aaah of relief was muffled as Cotard gave up his efforts on the neckcloth and buried his face against Bush’s neck. Bush could feel the hot breath on his neck. Now that he was started he did not want to stop; he pulled up Cotard’s shirt, freeing it from the breeches. He started grinding against him, slowly at first but increasing in tempo. Cotard sunk his teeth into Bush’s jacket shoulder, and Bush gasped.

The hands were now roving his back as Cotard writhed against him and Bush wondered if he would come in his breeches, the pressure was almost too much to take. He wanted – he did not know what he wanted. He wanted to make Cotard come. He reached around and removed Cotard’s hands. Cotard merely growled into Bush’s shoulder in response, not moving, but letting his hand drop limply to his side.

“Andre, I think that you will like this.” He stepped back, and was pleased to see the sated but confused look on Cotard’s face. Before he had time to regret it he kissed him again, then moved his hands down Cotard’s body. He felt the buttons of his waistcoat and undid them one by one, by feel alone, on his way down. He lifted the hem of Cotard’s shirt and ran his hands up his chest. The muscle was firm, wholly unlike that of a woman, and he marvelled at the difference.

A groan came from Cotard’s lips as Bush found his nipples and rubbed his thumbs over them. “You have the hands of a sailor,” Cotard said through gritted teeth.

“I have done my fair share of hard work,” Bush managed to say. His mind was on other things. Now that he had Cotard under his control, as Nelson once said, he should go right at ‘em. He crouched, scraping his fingernails down Cotard’s chest. The pressure of his own erection against his breeches was becoming more urgent, but he determinedly ignored it. He had never taken another man’s cock in his hands; when men relieved themselves of their tensions aboard ship you pretended not to listen, and you never looked. Bush closed his eyes and felt instead.

He cupped his balls and then moved further up. Cotard’s erection was firm, and warm in his hands. Bush pulled his hand along the full length and rubbed his thumb over the top, before moving down again. Soon he found the rhythm that he used on himself, and a groan from Cotard told him that he was successful. Finally, Bush opened his eyes; Cotard had sunk further down the door and was breathing heavily. A fraction of memory came back from their last encounter. If Cotard could, the he could do no less. Carefully, and hesitantly at first, he wrapped his mouth around the tip of Cotard’s cock. The gasp he heard assured him that he now had Cotard under his complete control.

He moved his tongue over the tip of his cock and then licked it down to the base. He could see that Cotard was starting to strain now, and he brought his hand back and began to stroke, before combining it with his tongue. It was too much for even one so controlled as Cotard, and it took him over the edge.

Bush fell heavily onto the floor as Cotard came; his shirt was covered in his come, and Cotard soon joined him on the floor. “I did not think that you had it in you,” Cotard managed between heavy breaths. Bush felt a tugging on the buttons of his breeches, and soon the constraint was gone, and with it his own restraint; it seemed as though the minute that Cotard touched his cock that it was enough to bring him off. Cotard rolled on top of him; they were now both breathing heavily, and Bush felt a drop of Cotard’s sweat fall on his face as he leaned in for a kiss.

“I think even a mouldy hammock is better than this floor,” Cotard said. “And, I think, that we are still a little overdressed.”

The weight that had been on top of him shifted and he could hear the sounds of Cotard divesting himself of the rest of his clothing. Bush pried himself off the floor and followed suit. He collapsed on the bed next to Cotard, who threw the blanket over them. The last thing he felt before falling asleep was Cotard’s arm wrapping over his chest.

Bush awoke to the sound of pounding rain and was surprised to realise that it was night. He felt sticky and in need of a wash. There was still water in the washstand; he gently manoeuvred Cotard off him so that he could get out of the bed. The water was cold, but oddly refreshing as he wiped himself clean. After a generous rub over with some towelling he felt much better. His stomach rumbled, but it appeared to be late; he could not hear any sounds from the tavern so it was likely too late to ask for a meal. He decided to ignore his stomach and instead slid back into the bed where it was warmer.

“I was getting cold. Perhaps you can warm me up,” Cotard said. A kiss landed on his bare shoulder and then another on his neck.

“I was thinking,” said Bush pretending to ignore his advances, “that we have missed supper.”

“Why eat when there are more pleasurable ways to pass the time?” Cotard said, continuing up to his ear.

“You are insatiable,” Bush said.

“I am practical,” Cotard replied. “And insatiable.”

This time the kiss landed on his lips, and he found that he could not resist.

“You have only made love to a woman before, yes?” Cotard said.

“Yes,” Bush breathed.

“I have made love to both. Don’t look so shocked, William, it does not become you. As I was saying, there are ways to pleasure a man that are different to pleasuring a woman. I think that you will find them satisfying. Are you willing...?”

“I – I.”

Another kiss landed on his lips before he could think of what to say. He closed his eyes as the kisses then trailed down his throat to the base of his neck. “If you are certain,” he managed to say.

“Of course, I have waited these many months for you, William. You have not been far from my thoughts all this time. Do you think that I would harm you in any way? Especially now? I wish to make love to you, as only a Frenchman can.”

Cotard continued down his chest, kissing, until he came to his nipples. He kissed one, and then the other before taking the nipple into his teeth and nipping it. Bush gasped. “I will take that as an agreement,” Cotard said. “I think we will be both in need of a big breakfast, but in the meantime let us sate our appetites in a different way.

Bush found that he could not disagree with the sentiment, and let himself go to the sensations.

 

* * * * 

Bush opened his eyes blearily; the sun was streaming in through the window and he found it hard to focus his eyes because of it. The storm had blown itself out during the night, not that he would have noticed at all. In the light of day, what they had done last night seemed almost unreal and, if not for his undressed state, he would have dismissed the memory as some kind of bizarre fantasy. Andre was still asleep in the bed beside him, and he could feel the warm press of his body against his skin. Bush eased him away so that he could get up; Cotard simply grunted and continued sleeping.

It was only when he sat up that Bush noticed the disarray in the room. There were clothes all over the floor; they had been left where they had fallen, and he looked on them in mild disapproval. They would likely need to be cleaned and pressed. He pushed himself from the bed and then bent down to pick them up, smoothing out Cotard’s jacket and draping it over the chair. He glanced back at the bed, but Cotard showed no sign of waking up. Bush continued with his task diligently. If nothing else, it would take his mind off other concerns. He walked over to the door; where his neckcloth lay abandoned, and picked it up to add it to the growing pile. It was only then that he noticed the letter lying underneath the door. He eased it out from under the door, turning it over in his hands. It was addressed in French and he did not recognise the seal. He set the letter on the table and went back to folding the neckcloth.

“William, how are you this morning?” Cotard said; he was mussed and he looked at Bush with the hooded eyes of someone who was not entirely awake.

“Fine, just fine,” Bush said.

“I would hope so,” Cotard said in a suggestive manner.

Bush looked down at himself and realised that he did not have a stitch of clothing on him. He blushed, and turned around to cover his embarrassment. He found his robe, and shrugged into it, then picked up the letter and wordlessly handed it to Cotard.

“Where did you find this?”

“It was underneath the door,” Bush said.

Cotard turned the letter over a couple of times before placing it on the bed beside him. He sat up letting the blankets fall to his waist and frowned. “You cleaned up. That was kind of you.”

“I need something to wear. These are my only clothes until the tailor delivers my new uniforms. I can hardly go downstairs dressed like a ragamuffin,” he said reasonably.

“You could wear something of mine,” Cotard said.

Bush looked Cotard up and down. Cotard was shorter than he was, and also was broader across the chest. It would be doubtful that anything that Cotard had any clothes that would fit. “Thank you for the offer, Andre, but I think I’ll try to straighten out what I have instead.”

“As you wish,” Cotard said. “Are you hungry? I find, after vigorous activity, that I am starved the next morning. Do you not find the same?”

“You’re not curious as to what the letter is about?” Bush said in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction; any other direction.

“I can already guess, and I think I would be better advised to read it on a full stomach.”

Bush nodded slowly. Clearly this had to do with the business of the day before. He reached for his breeches from the chair where he had just put them. Time to make his morning ablutions. They both carried on a desultory conversation while they dressed. Cotard, he noticed, avoided even looking at the letter.

“I need to attend to some business after breakfast,” Bush said.

“As do I. But I will meet you back here?”

“Of course.”

When Bush finally made it back to the room he found Cotard sitting on the bed; the open letter was beside him and he seemed lost in thought. Even when Bush closed the door and sank into the chair beside him he did not move or acknowledge his presence. Cotard, who always seemed to have a word for everything, seemed like a different man to Bush’s eyes.

“Andre, have you had bad news?” he said.

“Worse than you could possibly imagine,” Cotard replied, not raising his eyes to meet Bush’s. “I had hoped that I would be able to persuade him against this but he is stubborn. I tried yesterday, as you know. But he is persistent; I cannot leave him to try this on his own.”

“What does he want to do? You did not tell me yesterday,” Bush asked.

“And I will not tell you now. I have told you enough. More than I should have, William. I will tell you that tonight I go to France, and I do not know when I will return. It depends on how our…arrangements work out. I am sorry…”

Bush cleared his throat. Cotard already knew that he did not approve of what he was doing, but he had to ask the question all the same. “You are not going for revenge, Andre, are you?”

“I go to protect a friend, the best way that I can. I would do the same for you – and more,” he said. “The time for revenge is long past, now, there is only this.” Cotard waved at the letter and then shook his head violently. “Pierre is a fool, and now I am as well. What do you make of that, William?”

“We do what we must,” Bush said.

That drew a wry smile from Cotard at last. “That we do, William. I must make some preparations, but will you meet me for dinner and perhaps something more a little later?”

“At the Lion?” Bush suggested.

“No, back here at our room. I will arrange for a tray to be brought up,” Cotard said. “Will you be here?”

“Of course,” Bush said. He shook the foreboding feeling and managed a short smile.

“Good, then I shall see you anon,” Cotard said and left the room before they could say more.

Bush took a deep breath when he left. There was nothing he could say; Cotard would do as he pleased regardless of what he thought. He rose from his seat and looked down at the letter that still lay on the bed, before finally picking it up; it was in French, of course, and the words meant nothing to him. Was this a death sentence for Cotard, written in so many words? He hoped not, but war had a way of cutting through attachments. He should have known better than to get involved, it was foolishness on his part that much he was certain of. Spying was not the act of a gentleman, but was either of them gentlemen? Perhaps they weren’t, and he found that it did not matter to him as much as it once did.

* * * *

“… and then Pierre, he took the chicken and ran. You had to be there to see it!”

Bush shook himself from the reverie he was in. He should have been listening to Cotard’s story, but had drifted off half-way through. He smiled automatically and joined in with Cotard’s laughter.

“You did not hear a word I just said, did you?” Cotard said; he was still smiling, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“You were talking about your efforts to find food during the siege, Andre. I heard everything that you said.”

“No you did not, but it does not matter. Why the sombre mood, William?”

“I assure you that I am attending to every word that you say. I was just momentarily distracted, that is all.”

“Well, then, let us see if we can find some way to gain your undivided attention.”

“Had we better not finish this fine meal first?”

“In Paris they serve food that would make you weep with joy just to taste it. You can call the food many things here, but fine is not one of them. And I took the liberty to ask that the plates not be removed until morning. We are safe for at least the evening.”

“Will they not be suspicious, Andre? Should we take that chance?”

“You are overly concerned, William, and there is no need to be. I have done this on many an occasion, they know my habits here and they will not be the least bit suspicious. But if you are finished let us clear this away and attend to…other matters.”

Cotard got up from his seat, and pushed it back the wall. There were not two seats in the room and Bush had been forced to make his seat on the bed during the meal. Cotard had chuckled and said that it was all for the best. Bush eyed the packed bag, and then resolutely looked away from it; it was best not to think about what was about to happen. “When do you leave,” he asked anyway, and then cursed himself for a fool.

“On the high tide, just after midnight. I am told that it will be a good night for sailing.”

Bush shook his head. He knew Cotard’s opinion of sailing. “I was under the impression that you did not like ships, or sailing for that matter.”

“One cannot get to France from England by walking, even if I wish it were so. But let us find a more congenial subject, before I quit the notion of sailing entirely” Cotard said and smiled.

“You pick a subject, then,” Bush said.

“Perhaps talking will only get us into more trouble,” Cotard said.

“It has been know to do that, yes.”

They both sat in silence for a while, neither of them wishing to talk to the other. It was not an oppressive silence, though, and Bush was content to wait for Cotard to start talking again as he inevitably would.

“Perhaps I should rest,” Cotard ventured. “I have a long night ahead of me.”

“If you would like me to leave…”

“There is no need. I usually rest easier if there is someone beside me,” Cotard said. The offer hung in the air, and Bush realised that this could be the last of their time together. He was not certain how he thought about that, and realised the next time he heard of Cotard it might be a rumour that he was dead. “I could think of nothing I would like better,” he said by instinct. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

They both undressed, this time managing some kind of order in the process, then slipped under the covers. Cotard sidled up beside Bush and kissed him on the shoulder, then the neck. “I wish there were time for more,” he said.

“As do I,” Bush returned.

“I will get word to you, if I can,” Cotard said.

“Yes, I would like that.”

Cotard wrapped his arms around Bush and they lay there a long time before they both fell into an uneasy sleep.

Bush awoke to find the bed beside him empty, and the bag gone. He had slept more heavily than he first thought. Cotard, who was never in his experience a quiet person, had managed to leave the room without awaking him. He looked out the window for a moment before falling back onto the bed. There was little point in worrying now; he could work out what to do next in the morning.

* * * *

Epilogue

THREE MONTHS LATER – LONDON

Bush opened the door to the modest boarding house where he had been renting a room these last two months. The first thing that he was confronted with was the sight of his landlady, the redoubtable Mrs May. Her head barely came up to his chest, and she always seemed red and flustered. At first he thought that she was scatterbrained, but after repeated exposure to her he found this to be no more than an act. Her husband, who was a seaman, must be led a merry life when onshore. At the moment her brow was furrowed into a frown and he had the distinct impression that she had been chastising one of the maids. He was glad that he had not been there to see it if she had been. At sea he was accustomed to taking orders, but Mrs May made even the sternest captain look meek by comparison.

“There you are Lieutenant,” Mrs May said. “I thought you’d be gone the rest of the day and night.”

”There was a wait at the Admiralty. But I have come away with good news, so it was worth it,” Bush said.

“I would hope so, but I care little as long as you remain up to date with your rent,” she said.

“I shall not be in need of your services for much longer, as fine as they are,” Bush said. “I have received a post aboard a ship.”

“And you’ll be better for it. Much better than having you moping around here, if I may be so bold. Anyhow, while you were gone a letter came for you. I took the liberty of paying for it. You’d better have the money on you,” she said. “It’ll cost you two pennies.”

Bush reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. “It was kind of you to think of me.”

“Kindness had nothing to do with it, and you know it. But, be that as it may, I’ll be serving supper soon, if you wish it.” She snatched the coins from him and retreated into the parlour, returning with the letter. “When will you be leaving, Mr Bush?”

“Within the week. The Syren is victualling now at the Nore, and I should make haste in case she sails without me.”

“That’s not likely to happen now, is it? You sailors are all the same. You wish for land when you’re at sea, but given the chance you’ll be back on the waves before the sun has set. I’ll be seeing you for supper, then.” With that she was off, before he could answer.

He made his way up the stairs and back to his room. The Syren would be a good posting. Captain Reynolds was well thought of, and she was said to be a swift and weatherly ship. He looked around his room, deciding what he should pack now and what should remain for later. He opened his sea chest in preparation, and picked up the first of several books that his sisters had kindly sent him – replacements for those lost when the Hotspur had been lost. There was not much to pack, if the truth be known he did not have that much.

There would be time to read the letter before supper, so he reached for where he had put it on the table. It was addressed in a hand he did not recognise; curiously he turned it open and broke the seal. He lowered himself onto the bed and directed his attention to the spidery and messy script.

My Dearest William,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your trip to London has been a success for you. I have only just returned to Portsmouth this week and learned of your departure. It is a worthy cause, I must own, to find yourself a ship worthy of your service. I find myself bereft without your company, and hope that we will soon be in each others’ company again.

My business trip has finally yielded the results that I imagined it would, much to the relief of myself and of my companions. I returned to Portsmouth a bit worn but triumphant at our success. Your wishes of good tidings were welcome and I am glad of it.

I do find that, now I am back here, I am not as content to lead the safe life, and it has come to my attention that native French speakers are in demand by your Navy. I went to see the Port Admiral yesterday, and he has offered me a posting aboard the Syren as an ‘observer’ so he calls it. I was most delighted when I was informed that you had also been posted aboard her. It will do me good to know that my time at sea will not be a lonely one.

I will be taking the next coach to the Nore where I shall see you anon.

With affection,

Andre Cotard

Bush lowered the letter, incredulity rising in him along with triumph. He tried to summon anger at the mere suggestion that, somehow, Cotard had managed to arrange this posting for him. It could not possibly be the case; Cotard would not have the connections required, and on such short notice…

He folded the letter carefully and put it inside the cover of the book in his sea chest. If Cotard was leaving for the Nore tomorrow, then so should he. He could get the Mail Coach first thing. He straightened his jacket and waistcoat and headed for the door. It was time for supper, and he would have to tell Mrs May that he would be leaving at first light. He threw back his shoulders and walked out the door. The time had come for a new beginning, if there was any such thing.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally started in a comments thread in cimmerianwillow's journal ages ago. Both she and paraxdisepink twisted my arm encouraged me to finish it. It took a bit longer than intended. I'd like to thank nautacarus for her wonderful beta. Some knowledge of Hornblower and the Crisis could be useful, as well as Duty.


End file.
